


The Gaskell Diaries

by LadyJaguar



Category: Holby City
Genre: 80's Music, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Bisexual Male Character, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Gay Male Character, M/M, Rare Pairings, Secret Crush, Switching, Unrequited Lust, Very Secret Diary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-02 05:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16780225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJaguar/pseuds/LadyJaguar
Summary: Unmitigated filth: be warned. Not in every chapter, but some. Have now decided this HAS to have an HEA, otherwise it's just another case of "gays be miserable," and that shit just isn't right. Doesn't mean I won't put John through hell first though. This is set in an AU where John isn't (too much of) a bastard, doesn't steal Roxanna's work and doesn't become a serial killer. Otherwise, canon-ish...John Gaskell is in lust, and the object of his affections has no clue about the diary he keeps as a way of relieving the pressure. These are his intensely private thoughts. If anyone else read them, the fallout could be catastrophic.





	1. Unrequited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 1988
> 
> The first entry in a secret diary written by John when he was sharing digs with Henrik at university.

_This is for you, H. I can't write your name. Not yet. If you ever see this, if you ever wonder who I've written this for, then yes, this is me, talking to you. You, my love._

_Only and always you._

_I've never written a diary before. This is a first for me. I'm doing it to make sense of these hectic feelings buzzing around in my head, feelings which have been growing ever since I first saw you. Tall, elegant, smoking as if born to it, the vapour trailing from your lips as you say your name, slender wrists and a firm grip, closing around my hand. I knew right then I was lost. The only question was how deep._

_The most horrific day of my life came when I saw you slipping beneath the water. In that moment, I saw my life flashing past, all the missed opportunities, the gaping empty hole my life would be without you in it. I saw all of this as I dived in, and felt the solid presence of you, gradually being drawn into my arms. I could have kissed you then. Let your last breath be shared with mine, our limbs tangled as the water pulled us deeper, our lips locked in a kiss forever._

_Yet our instincts to survive were too strong. Our hearts beat so briefly as one, breast to breast, stomach to stomach, groin to groin, racing pulses that absolutely refused to die. And that is why I'm here, writing this, watching you study. You've just looked up and me and smiled, an intimate smile of true friendship. How would you feel if I told you that wasn't what I wanted? I didn't just want solidarity, brotherhood, lifelong friends, colleagues. I wanted love, partnership, passion._

_With you. No one but you._

_Do you know what that is? I mean, really? I watch you with Roxanna and you have so much love for her. It's tender and true, but there's no passion, not in the way I'm talking about. Our hearts beat the same rhythm. You don't understand but if I could show you, I would._

_Imagine the shiver of lips on the back of your neck, of fingertips gliding down your back, the warmth of breath against your throat, the nip of teeth leaving their mark._

_Can you?_

_Close your eyes and breathe in the scent of another human being, feel the muscles, planes and hollows under your hands, the sweet rasp of stubble ag_ _ainst your skin._

_Can you_ _imagine that? Now you're lighting another cigarette, long fingers running through your hair, that great brain absorbing knowledge, processing it, seeing the potential. And all I can do is look at you and drink you in, imagine my fingers in your hair, my body under yours, putting the same cigarette to my lips, right where yours just were. I see us lying side by side, naked, sweat-soaked, exhausted and sated, possibly a little panicked. There's a name for people like us. We are shrouded in death on every side. People dropping, accused, shunned, misunderstood, blamed for wanting too much, too soon, too publicly._

_But not us, in this small room, fragranced with your smoke and my need for you. Here we are safe. Oh my love, if you could only see and accept these feelings I have for you. Your reciprocation is all I crave._

_I'm getting stupid now. And drunk. I'll close my eyes and dream of you._


	2. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is driven to distraction when he witnesses Henrik indulging in sleepy self-love.

It's late. You're asleep, snoring slightly, on your back. Too much whisky from our raucous night. Roxanna is working next door, fed up with us hitting the bottle and singing stupid songs.

As for me, I feel stone cold sober. Well, maybe not. I've drunk enough to hunger for you even more than I usually do. I could jerk off and relieve that tension, but now I'm using it to write what is in my head. You're sprawled on the bed, comatose and hard. I can see the sheet tenting, so invitingly. What would you think if I peeled it away and took you in my mouth? What would you do? What would you think? I don't know and that kills me. If there were no doubt, if I knew you were straight I would force these thoughts back down and move on.

But I can't. I can't and it's eating me up inside, not knowing. Sometimes I'm sure you're watching me the way I watch you. I sense your gaze, warm and tender. I don't want that! I want hunger, need, want, savagery. All those things. Your fingers digging into my skin, leaving marks on my back, a dull ache from our brutal loving, an instant throb thinking of your slow smile and the promise it will deliver when we're alone. 

Now I'm watching your hand slip beneath the sheet. This is torture. Are you doing this on purpose? Gripping the pillow, breathing quickening as your need rises. I'm doing the same, timing my orgasm with yours, imagining I'm lying close enough to kiss your lips as we touch each other.

Or not. Maybe I would wake you slowly, suck you in and relish the soft cries you make as ecstasy takes hold. You would lift your hips, accept my attention, grasp my hair and force me to take more of you, force me to swallow your release and then press me back on the bed and kiss me, tasting yourself on my lips.

Oh God....

This is what you do to me, you see. You think I'm a driven, intelligent, focussed human being but right now? My brain is soup, watching you sink back into sleep, hand over your cock, cradling it tenderly. 

What are you dreaming, Henrik? Am I there? Are you imagining its my hand caressing you the way you're now touching yourself?

Can I lie with you? Please?

Please, Henrik...


	3. Take The Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John muses while Henrik sleeps....

Wow, I was drunk when I wrote that. I was just about to tear the thing out and consign it to flames but then I thought

fuck it

My diary, my rules. I'm up to my head in alleles, ganglions, neurotransmitters, DNA, blood types, theories, earnest conversations, arguments and I love all that. LOVE ALL THAT!!! But this little book, Jesus, I had no idea this could be so freeing. I can write whatever the hell I want so I will.

Ha!

Last night was a case in point, but that can wait. You're looking at me now, smiling indulgently. _"Still working? You should try to relax more."_

I'm smiling back at you, my mind in the gutter.You're lying on the bed, hands behind your head, legs stretched out in front of you, crossed at the ankle. The top three buttons on your shirt are undone, displaying a tempting triangle of creamy skin. No hair. I don't understand that. Dark curls on your head but perfectly smooth on your chest. Maybe you're still maturing, still developing, putting all your energies into your height. Your forearms have a smattering of silky hair, as do your legs. Sadly, that's all I've seen. Do you know I watch you when I think you can't see me? Do you sense my hunger? When I look in the mirror, that's all I see. It's written in red ink over my face. 

Actually, no. It's written in spunk, over my body. Every fucking, shitting night.

Your jeans are damned tight. There's no mistaking a sizeable bulge. You don't do it on purpose, either. You're clueless about me. All you see is Roxanna. Damn it, Henrik, why can't you _see_ me?

_"You look very mysterious, John. What's going on in that head of yours?"_

Nothing," I'm saying back to him. "I'm just making notes for tomorrow."

~~I want you to get over here and wrap your beautiful lips around my cock.~~

fuck it

I want you to get over here and wrap your beautiful lips around my cock. 

I smile again, but wryly, because you'll never know truly what is in my head. You're too sweet, too innocent, even. Fragile as a bird cupped in my hand, yet with a resolute core, stronger since you tried to drown yourself in the lake. Remember who gave you that, Henrik. I gave you that survival instinct when I pulled you from the lake. It was me. Remember that.

"Get some rest, John. You look like you want to kill someone." He reaches over to his tape recorder and plugs his headphones in, relaxing back, eyes closed. 

This is good. It means I can watch him a little longer. He's listening to classical music again. Brahms, if I'm not mistaken. Symphony No. 1. That's his way of switching off, his hands moving gracefully to the music, almost of their own volition. 

I need to do the same, though my tastes are slightly different. I'm still trying to convert him to the insidious pleasures of Depeche Mode. Surely he'll be able to read the subtext, and realise I want him as more than a friend. 

Trouble is, music makes me horny. I'm listening to Strangelove and that is definitely a mistake right now.

Oh yes, last night, and the show I went to, down in the arse-end of Boston. Jesus, that was a dive. It stank of sweat, latex and sex, but I could wear my leather trousers and mesh vest and not feel like some walking advert for a Tom of Finland fuck book, with a huge target on my back for all the homophobes to have a pop at. 

Hell yeah, three blow jobs and a good groping on the dance floor was a successful haul for my first US gay club experience. One was a professor from college. He's some big shot in nuclear physics, but he wasn't there to talk rocket science. He went down on me like a drowning man sucking at an oxygen tank. Never realised I was a student but he must have guessed some of the pretty boys were. Some think I'm a bottom because of my height, but I get them by the hair and show them who is in charge. They crash to their knees faster than a priest at confessional. He certainly did. 

And for several sweet moments, I can imagine it's your hair I'm holding, your lips working their way down my body, your hands unzipping my trousers and pulling out my cock....

Shit. This is becoming a big problem. Time to turn out the light, curl away from you and wank off. Again. Biting my lips to stop any sound escaping them. Again. Thinking of you in tight black leather, crouched before me like a wet dream. 

Yet a-fucking-gain...

_Will you take the pain I give to you_

_Again and again and will you return it?_

  
  
_There'll be days when I'll stray_

_I may appear to be constantly out of reach_

_I give in to sin_

_Because I like to practice what I preach_

_I'm not trying to say I'll have it all my way_

_I'm always willing to learn when you've got something to teach_

_Oh, and I'll make it all worthwhile..._

_(Strangelove - Depeche Mode)_


	4. Roxanna Rambles

Roxanna's onto something. I just know it. Out of the three of us, she's the one I never expected. A bubbly blond tiny girl, cupping a spark of true genius in her hand. It's terrifying how much I hate her for that. I want it, that thing which will never be mine. She has everything. Henrik, her work, her vivid intelligence. And your heart. 

I'm the Joker in the pack. How can you both not see it? Or maybe you do and you're treating me kindly, as the equal you know I'm not. 

Envy is an ugly thing, so I'm swallowing it, concentrating on something beautiful. 

And now you're lying in bed, taunting me with his nakedness. Damn it, Henrik, do you even own pyjamas? I wish I could draw, creating curves and shadows out of charcoal and paper. But all have is words, so here goes.

I'm watching from my bed as you sleep. You're lying on your front, one leg straight, the other bent, a foot hanging over the edge. You're holding the pillow like a lover, dark lashes resting on your pale, lean face, softer without your glasses on. A slight smile dimples the corner of your mouth. As you shift, I get a breathtaking view of the hollow under your hip bone, fading to grey against the sheet. Your skin is marble, hair silky and dark. My fingers itch to stroke it. 

Instead I pour another bourbon and drink you in with just my eyes. 

I have to move away from this. The date I have on Friday might just be what I need to get you out of my head. I met him on campus a couple of weeks back, but I didn't want to jinx it by putting it here. He's tall, like you, but blond, muscular, probably too sweet for me. 

But I kept running into him. Coincidence? Probably not. It's that professor I met at the club. I've already decided to fuck him, if he's happy to. Maybe I'll bring him back here if you're out with Roxanna. 

Or maybe not. Maybe we'll start dating. Imagine that. Me, in a relationship!

No, there's too much at stake. The work. I mustn't lose focus.

Nothing but the work....

Roxanna came in earlier. Her eyes were red. I assumed it was because she works so damned hard, but no. Her mother is sick. She wants to go home but if she does that, she'll never return. I just know it. She's too loyal, too loving. That's what families mean to me. Being tied down. Being trapped. Being hurt. The scar still itches on my lower stomach where I was branded, so I can't sympathise with her. I wish I could, but I can't. 

I wish I had your empathy, but I'm cold. Like stone. 

Even so, she's curled up next to me as I write. Fast asleep, a dormouse of a girl, taking comfort from my presence. I find that laughable, yet sweet. She's so trusting, the closest thing I have now to a sister. Like Mara was. That little girl who always looked up to me to do the right thing, even as the bastards branded her and I could only watch. I had to harden myself after that. That way the pain is less. It doesn't get in the way. What is left is only focus, and purpose. 

Roxanna has both yet she retains her grace. Being with her makes me feel less soiled. I don't mean being gay. That is who I am and I'm comfortable with that. I mean the DAMAGE done to Mara and I, those scars inside and out. I'm not making sense now. 

This is who I am, talking shit to a book, knowing it won't be read by anyone but me.

NB: Must remember your birthday next week. I have something special lined. up. I can guarantee you will never have experienced anything like this before. That is, if you even agree to it....


	5. Henrik's Birthday Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has taken Henrik out on the town, with unexpected consequences.

That was an experience. I almost blew the whole thing, getting difficult when Roxanna wanted to come with us. I didn't want her there, but now I'm glad she came. She tempered anything I might have done once the drink started flowing. Kept me in check. That was wise. I know that now. I kissed her cheek and apologised for my bad mood early in the evening. 

So, yeah, the evening panned out differently to how I'd hoped, but it might yet yield results. 

Reading that, I sound coy. 

Okay, I wanted to see how far you would go. Taking you to Peaches was always going to be a risk. You were nervous, especially when I said your arse would be black and blue by the end of the evening. 

Too much. 

You trusted me though, and thanks to Roxanna, you still do. 

We started off with shots in the apartment. One each, straight back, and a toast. Happy Birthday, Henrik! Roxanna had bought you a dashing silk scarf. It was a very fetching berry red, perfect against your dark hair. You looked inordinately pleased and for a moment, I thought you were going to kiss her. 

But you never do, do you? What's holding you back, Henrik?

And I had found a a black felt Fedora from a charity shop, which looked very dashing, even on your large head. Of course, you ruined the look by wearing drainpipe jeans and your favourite check shirt with the button down collar. I said you looked like an advert for LL Bean. You looked pleased and said it was. 

Oh God, you're a work in progress...

The Fall wind was cold, so you were suitably equipped to brave the elements when we finally left, but I was fucking freezing.

Ok, so a mesh vest isn't the warmest thing to wear, even under a red leather jacket. And my leather trousers were so tight I could barely breathe, but my bollocks looked great, eyeliner perfect, and the nail varnish Roxanna had put on for me was cute too. Glossy black. Check me out, the sex dwarf with a brain. Ha!

I was hungry and desperate, looking at you as if I wanted to strip you right there and just ... eat you. I'm no good at hiding how I feel. Not really. Not when it's primal, a lust for life, or success, or sex. I can't do it. 

Fuck, I walked out of there looking like a Tom of Finland sketch. Despite the clothes, you looked incredible. It was hard not to stare. Roxanna seemed to sense how I was feeling. When she slipped her arm through mine, it was almost a comfort. I think she knows how I feel about you.

Pity you don't.

And yes, you did get a lot of attention. We walked in as Donna Summer was singing _Love To Love You, Baby_ and I put my swagger on, but you, with your height and air of innocence, drew male gazes like wolves scenting fresh blood. I watched you fielding the attention with humour and grace. Even the Freddy Mercury lookalike who whispered in your ear. I can't imagine what he said but you smiled and shook your head, indicating me. Now I know what a warm glow feels like. 

"Everyone is very friendly," you commented as we fought for drinks at the bar. 

Yes, Henrik, they're friendly....

The music changed. Bronski Beat. Jimmy Sommerville started wailing, echoing my own hunger for you. The beat was electric. I abandoned you and Rox at the bar and did my thing on the floor, rubbing up against some hot construction type with a peaked hat, swapping spit, then heading off to the elevated stage. 

I'm good at dancing. I know it. I've been here before, launching myself off at the end to be groped by strangers' hands. That won't happen today though. Today I'm dancing for you, Henrik. Yes, you. Rox is out of sight. Oh, no, there she is, dancing away with an older gentleman who is smiling and treating her nicely. She's happy, laughing, and she can't see me. She can't see you, either, following my every move. 

_You and me together, fighting for our love...._

I beckon to you, and by some miracle, you come to me. You look hypnotised, like Sleeping Beauty about to prick her finger. I pull you up onto the stage and kiss you, full on the lips, a wet, sweaty, dirty, beer-soaked snog. 

And you love it. You kiss me back. You thrust your tongue against mine and we grind together. Two more seconds and I would have lost my shit, right there. 

But then you pull away, laughing, saying "happy now?" And you're gone.

When I find you again, you're with Rox, dancing as if nothing had happened. She is smiling at me, our earlier spat forgotten. I guess she hasn't been told about Henrik snogging me. Or if she has, she has assumed it was the drink. Boys being boys. Normal service resumed.

Of course, we didn't tell her about the glory hole, did we? The cubicle was tiny with both of us in it. When I explained what the hole was for, your eyes widened like Bambi's. I thought you were going to pass out when someone actually put their dick through the hole. It was a monster, too. Not like some of them. 

"What happens now?" You whispered, barely audible above the deep bass throb of the dance floor above. 

I couldn't believe you didn't really know, but my hand gestures put you in the picture. You froze, just staring at the thing like was some kind of alien, until the owner gave up and went away. As the cubicle door slammed again, indicating someone else was there, you walked out. 

No. You RAN.

But you went back in. Not until later, but you did, after three more shots of JD and a muttered excuse about needing the toilet. I watched you come out, and I knew, Henrik. Your eyes were wide, your breathing unsteady. Were you the giver or the receiver, Henrik? I really, really want to know.

_Happy Birthday, Henrik. I hope it was everything you hoped for._

A while later you disappeared again, but this time I followed you. Rox was on the dance floor, having drunk enough to dance uninhibitedly, safe in the knowledge that no men would try to bother her. She was the only one enjoying herself at that point, or so I thought. 

I saw you standing in the alleyway, leaning against the wall. The man snogging you had his hand on your crotch, squeezing it. I could hear your soft whimpers and heavy breathing, the tiny sound as he unzipped you and took you in his mouth. I heard your gasp and grunts as you came, and watched your companion stand up, wipe his mouth and walk away before you had recovered. When you saw me, you fumbled for your clothing and muttered about needing fresh air, about feeling unwell. You said you wanted to leave, and I was happy to comply. 

I had seen enough for that night. And I hadn't scored once.

Rox held you all the way back to college, while you moaned you were going to throw up. 

"I can't believe we let him drink so much," she said. Fortunately, you managed to wait until we arrived before emptying your stomach. Between us we managed to get you up to our room. By then it was some crazy time in the morning so we all slept together, you in the middle, spooned around me, and Roxanna on the outside. 

That was the best part of the night for me. Seeing you get sucked off by another man, the lowest point. 

"What did I do?" You asked in the morning, when Rox had left to shower. 

So I told you the truth. "You had your dick sucked twice. Welcome to my world."

I liked the look on your face. It was half-shock, half-acceptance. 

Interesting. 

Isn't that what I was hoping for? 

Be careful what you wish for, John....


	6. Reality Bites

You'd think uni is just one round of parties, hangovers, blow jobs and fast food, right?

Wrong. We work hard. We attend lectures, spend hours studying, writing essays, theorising, discussing and doing research. But we do that such a lot, I don't want to discuss it here. This is MY time, for MY thoughts, not of how the course is going, but the exploits that happen when we have to let off steam. 

And I have a lot of steam to let off. Today I found out another friend had fallen sick, due to the virus. 

Yes, THAT virus. AIDS. They say that saying a thing reduces its power. AIDS. AIDS. AIDS. AIDS. AIDS. AIDS.

Not in this case. I hate it, what this virus is doing to us. Jesus, what a mess. People don't want to talk about it. There are young men dying alone in hospital beds, rejected by their families, corpses in the morgue, destined for a unmarked grave because their parents won't give them a proper burial, men separated by families who won't accept their long-term partners as next-of-kin, who are given the rights to their property and assets even after they've rejected them. Some of these people have long-term partners who will be made homeless this way. Everything about this virus shows the inhumanity man is capable of showing to man. I hate this world at times. I hate how it is treating people like me, who just want to love who we want to love.

Even you, Henrik, told me to be careful, be discreet. I understand why, but it's infuriating. It's an ugly stain on the community. People are pointing fingers, blaming us. Blame the fucking gays for everything, right? We're a scapegoat for something much bigger, something that doesn't just affect us, but everyone. EVERY GODDAMNED ONE OF US.

But blame the gays. Serve them right for their overt gaudiness, their fabulousness, their activism, their way for forcing you to notice them, for Pride, for Stonewall, for hijacking the rainbow flag, for shimmying their asses, for making you question your own sexuality, for making your straight white entitled dick twitch in front of your pearl-wearing, Dooney & Bourke bag-toting, Daughters Of The British Empire secretary, Chairwoman of the PTA wife who refused to do anal, who only sucks you off on your birthday, who gave your 2.4 fucking children, one of them will be gay and you will reject them the way you reject anything shaking your perfect construct of a world.

Yes, I'm angry. No fucking shit.

Moving on.... 

I've been seeing that professor for a while. Randy, if you can believe it. Randy Baumgartner from Kentucky. Randy the Rocket Scientist. Randy by name, Randy by nature, Randy AKA Mandy at the weekends.

He's a power bottom, which can be exciting, and also annoying. We usually meet in his quarters, late at night, and I tie him up and slap him around, because that's what he demands. It was satisfying at first but now it's predictable. If he wore the cock ring I gave to him, that would be different, but he won't because it's a steel one and apparently, they are for hard core users only. 

Well, yes, that's the fucking point, Randy. 

He's also refusing the use of nipple clamps. Now, I love them. I've even used them on myself when I'm having a self-love session. Damned hot, especially if I imagine them on you, Henrik, with a nice little steel collar around your neck to give them a little tug just when you're getting too comfortable. 

That's guaranteed to blow my mind, if I'm in a hurry...

Heh....

That's better. Now I can focus a bit. Note to self, don't start thinking about Henrik and BDSM at inappropriate times. Talking of which, Halloween is approaching. Possible disguises.

Henrik - Dracula (been done already though) Phantom, Doctor Death, Nerd, Grim Reaper, Heathcliffe, Frankenstein's monster

Roxanna - Carrie, Corpse Bride, ~~Bunny Girl~~ , Witch, Dorothy (Wizard of Oz) ~~Some kind of rabbit. Kathy~~ , (nothing too sexy)

Me - Gangster, Frankenstein (leading his Monster by a chain,) Doctor Who, Indiana Jones

Yes, I'm an intelligent man who wants to be a doctor and change the world. And yes, I want to dress up as Frankenstein and lead a Monster (Henrik) around on a leash. And yes, I think about sex a LOT. Make of that what you will, Sigmund Freud.

I had a bad day today. Can you tell?


	7. Behind The Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After John's anger of the last entry, some frivolity
> 
> Nah, maybe not...
> 
> It's Halloween, and once again, John has tried to lead Henrik astray, with even more unexpected results.

Halloween, my favourite time of year. A chance to dress up, camp it up and snog someone inappropriate. Everyone is masked, made-up, disguised. Boys can be girls and girls can be boys, and no one cares. This is the one night where anything goes. 

So, an interesting development. David has just joined our course, having moved from California. An all-round good guy who, as I discovered, has a penchant (I love that word) for English blonde girls. 

Long story short, he and Roxanna are smitten. Totally. 

Okay, so I gave them a nudge. Just a small one, by inviting David along to our weekly pizza evenings. I know you didn't like it, Henrik, but you're so magnanimous. I knew you would welcome him because it isn't in your nature not to, is it? Even when you could see the chemistry between them, you did nothing to stop it. Like an obedient dog, you lay down and submitted to the inevitable. 

I felt a twinge of guilt, which lasted about a microsecond. It was up to the lovebirds to make a go of it, or not. 

I've never seen Roxanna look so radiant. 

Or you look so miserable. 

So, like a good friend, I sought to comfort you. Randy the professor is no longer in the picture. He couldn't stand the heat of being with me. He wanted someone softer, more gentle, not someone who pulled his hair and slapped his ass and told him what a filthy bitch he was. Not someone who dug their fingers into his hips and left marks on his neck. Not someone who pushed his face into the pillow and fucked him so hard he felt as if he would split in two. 

Some people just aren't into that, I guess. He was a sweet man, too sweet for me. We kissed and parted as friends. Make no mistake, though, he'll never forget me.

Moving on. Bring on the scary masks. It's amazing how uninhibited you get when in disguise, especially if you feel reckless enough to engage me in a drinking competition, when you know, YOU KNOW, I will always win. It's that Scottish blood, laddie. You Vikings don't have a chance against me.

Cue most of the evening being spent with your head down various toilets, or the gutter. In one instance, over someone's garden fence. I'll give you one thing, though. You weave very elegantly, especially when wearing a dinner jacket and cape, your hair slicked back. I did your make up; enhancing your glorious cheekbones, giving you eyeliner and painted on fangs. I was going to dress up as Roxanna, just for shits and giggles, but I knew you wouldn't see the funny side, so instead I was Adam Ant. It was a chance for me to look pretty, rakish and sexy, rather than fucking ridiculous. I looked cute as well, with that white stripe across my nose and a frilled blouse over tight, bollock-enhancing trousers. You made some comment about seeing what I had for supper, but that made me feel hot and cold because you had obviously noticed the bulge in my jeans. What you don't know is that I added some extra fun by wearing a cock ring.

A few weeks earlier, I had discovered a backstreet shop selling leather goods. The shop owner made these cute little rings with stud fasteners for those who asked specially for them. He measured me, sucked me off because he appreciated my business, and made me this custom ring, soft calf's leather, quick release, the perfect balance of comfort and purpose. Whenever I wear it, I score big. 

I mean, really big. The guys in the gay bars love that shit, a modestly-sized man with a decent package that stays hard. I've given that leather goods shop a lot of business from the gayboys. Maybe I've started something. 

So yeah, the cock ring. I'm primed, you've noticed, and now we're out causing mayhem on All Hallow's Eve. I stop to snog an old lover, aware you are watching. You don't actually have to watch, Henrik, when another man cops a feel and whispers an invitation in my ear. But you do, and the look in your eyes is unreadable as I make my apologies and move back to your side. 

Where did you get that bottle of tequila anyway?

By then you had reached the point of no return. How many shots? How many bars? I can't remember. Just the good times, holding on to you while you tack down the road like a ship in full sail, singing ...

What were we singing?

Oh yes, _Roxanne_ by the Police. It hadn't taken long for you to reach the maudlin stage, your arm around my shoulder, lips close to my ear because of the noise around us, asking me why she wasn't interested in you.

At one point, you headed off in the direction of her room. I only found you because you were bellowing "Roxanne, you don't have to wear that dress tonight," like a dog howling outside her window. 

Remember how I rugby-tackled you just before she came to the window? Or how I pushed you into the hedge and slapped my hand over your mouth to stop you alerting her we were there?

No?

Then you won't remember how I lay on top of you for longer than necessary, relishing the feel of your cock pressing against my lower belly.

And you definitely don't remember asking me why I had erection, or my reply. 

"Because you're fucking sexy when you're drunk."

Which you are. I mean, apart from the smell of vomit and the self-pity. 

And you don't remember either, the way you replied, "so are you," and the way we kind of moved together for a while, until you were hard and breathing heavily, and I was actually able to bring you off without doing more than rubbing my rock hard cock against yours. 

But I remember the way your head fell back, exposing your long, pale throat, and the soft sounds, stifled by my fingers, as you ground against me, pleasuring yourself. Henrik, you are one hot mess of a man. To be honest, what you need is a night with me and two others to well and truly open your eyes. 

As well as other orifices....

I doubt Roxanna would give you what you need. She's too much of a lady to wrap her pretty lips around your dick, let alone swallow. Oh, and just for the record, I don't swallow either. These are dangerous times, and I want to live. 

I'm no lady. I'm a fucking _queen_ , snake-hipped and hungry for a man who wants to be straight but knows deep down he isn't. He's bent as I am. 

On Halloween, for five sweet minutes, you knew with absolute clarity what it was you hungered for. 

But now, you don't remember. Is this amnesia of convenience, or genuinely alcohol-related? I'm writing this the morning after, and you're comatose on the bed, spread out, on your back, snoring. When you wake up, you're going to feel like the four horseman of the Apocalypse are thundering through your head. 

I'm fine, an old lag in my tender early twenties. I want to finish this entry now so I can sit back, watch you, possibly have a wank. Same shit, different day. 

Fuck it. Damn it. I didn't choose this life, this hunger, this inherent need. Neither did you.

But here we are. 

How long are you going to deny your true nature for, Henrik?

How long?


	8. Kiss The Snake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's Christmas, the way he wanted it to be. It's just a fantasy, but in a haze of booze and drugs, it almost seems real.
> 
> EXPLICIT
> 
> There are places where the tense changes from present to past, but it's intentional. I hope it works!

I'm writing this now, because on the day I was comatose, staring at the ceiling, half-formed thoughts swirling around in my head. Now I'm lucid, I can see it clearly. Maybe not lucid. Actually, I'm high as fuck. I guess that's why this vision is so clear. I can SEE it, taste it, smell it, feel it; the Christmas I wanted with you, Henrik. The one that hasn't happened. 

Yet....

You decided to stay with me in our digs, foregoing wallflower duties for Rox and David. The idea was to get drunk, and pretty much stay that way until the New Year, interspersed with helpings of pizza and a few spliffs in front of stupid sentimental movies. I know you were doing it because Rox was worried about me being on my own, and you didn't relish watching her falling in love with David just a bit more every day. Right now I don't care. You're here and that's what counts.

I don't celebrate Christmas as a rule. It never meant much in my world. Every day was a fight for survival, and only the most cunning and manipulative won. But Christmas Eve was fun, down at an Irish pub with other waifs and strays, singing well into the night and downing copious amounts of whiskey. We made a pact not to talk about our work. In fact, if either of us even mentioned college, we had to down a shot of bourbon. 

I guess that's how you got so drunk.

We staggered home about two in the morning, stopping so you could vomit in a hedge. No night was ever complete without you vomiting somewhere. The gutter, someone's garden, a nightclub toilet. I wish I could purge as easily, but you're a past master at it.

Is that why you're so thin, Henrik? Rox wanted me to keep an eye on you, make sure you eat well, but I'm happy if you drink your bodyweight in hard liquor and chug down carbs to keep you going. You're with me, and that's all that matters.

Christmas Day dawns. You're on the couch, on your back, snoring your head off. I wander in, hair all over the place, sprung from a horny dream and just wearing cotton boxers, as I usually do. Standing over you, watching your chest rise and fall, I murmur "Merry Christmas to me," because your presence is a gift, nothing more, nothing less. Especially now, naked apart from your jeans, one hand shoved into the waistband. Your skin is surprisingly hairless and pale for one so dark-haired. A Gothic beauty. I have a sudden urge to sketch you, as I've done so often before whilst you've been sleeping. 

Sitting in the armchair opposite you, I look through my work. It's all of you. Eyes, lips, hands, and your long, prehensile feet with little tufts of dark hair on the big toes. There are also full body drawings of us, limbs entangled, skin to skin, your eyes closed in ecstasy as I lick my way down your body. You get the idea. I can only imagine your reaction if you saw these images. My feelings would be totally at your mercy, and it can't happen. No way in hell. 

So I'm taking a risk. My pencil does its own thing, drawing you naked, one leg bent, the other slung casually over the back of the couch. Your back is slightly arched, your lips half-open as if in rapture. I add myself to the drawing, resting between your legs, my head bent. What I am doing is only suggested, but unmistakable. It's how I'd like to wake you right now, if only you would let me.

"Can I move yet?" Your voice makes me jump. Damn. I had been so involved in my drawing, I had forgotten to check if you were still asleep. 

Now you're sitting up, massaging your head, saying you don't feel as bad as you thought you would after our heavy night before. 

"That's because I was plying you with water. I didn't want you to spend today moaning about having a sore head." 

You get up, stretch, and go to the bathroom. Jesus, Henrik, you piss like a racehorse. This is the ideal time for me to tuck the sketchbook back under the mattress but I don't. I guess subconsciously I want you to see the drawing so you know how I feel and what I want, if only you would let me.

You turn on the multi-coloured fairy lights, and before I know what's happening, you have whisked the sketch pad out of my hands. 

"Henrik..." I try to grab it, but you move away. I know resistance is futile. I bury my head in my hands as you go to the armchair and look through my work. I don't want to see the horror or even disgust on your face. I sink down on the couch and stare at the threadbare carpet, wishing it could swallow me up.

"These are all of me," you say.

I nod wordlessly. I can hardly deny it.

"I had no idea you were so talented."

I look up. You don't seem angry. Quite the opposite. You turn the pad and look at the drawing I've just done, then raise one dark eyebrow. My face is scarlet. I don't think I've known embarrassment like it before in my life.

"What else are you good at, John?"

_No, you didn't just ask that. Not in that suggestive tone of voice. I misheard. I ..._

"A lot of things," I mutter at the carpet. I hate how you're toying with me. I've met men like that before, but they are not you, Henrik. You are the self-deprecating, unsure Swede who loves a girl he cannot have. 

You sit next to me and we look at one of my favourite drawings I did of us. You're in my arms on the couch, and I have an ashtray balanced on my chest. You're handing me a spliff, your head on my shoulder. We're both naked apart from underwear, the shadows and folds suggesting arousal in both of us.

The silence stretched between us. In the end I couldn't bear it anymore.

"Do ...?"

"How ...?"

We both stop and laugh. "You go first," I say.

"How long have you felt this way about us?" You ask.

_Us. I like that._

"I don't know. Probably since the beginning," I reply honestly. It's such a relief that you know and don't seem angry with me. "Do you mind?"

In reply, you pick up my fingers and kiss them gently, then shake your head, a barely noticeable action. "I'm confused though."

I sigh deeply. "Roxanna." It always came back to Roxanna.

"Is there anything wrong with wanting two people at the same time?"

I stare at you. "Like.... a threesome?"

You grin unexpectedly. "No, you idiot! I meant ..."

"Oh!" I feel really stupid, then realise what you've said. "You want me too?"

You lie back on the couch and regard me. "I'm not blind, John. Or deaf. I know what you do at night when you think I'm asleep." 

I'm blushing like a fucking nun for the second time in ten minutes, but that doesn't matter because you're moving over so I can lie next to you on my side, snug between you and the couch cushions, and your body feels so warm and solid. Without your glasses, your myopic gaze is liquid and intense. You're waiting for me to make the move, because you don't feel confident enough to do that. 

And I do. 

I press my lips to yours, then draw back to gauge your reaction. 

"Is that it?" You ask. "I've waited two years for that?"

"Bastard." I kiss you again, this time moving up so I can press you back against the cushions, slide my hand down your chest, tease your lips apart with my tongue and taste the inside of your mouth. You've brushed your teeth, which is more than I thought of doing. For a moment I hesitate, but your whimper tells me I'm doing just fine. Your buttocks feel tight and hard under my grip. The kiss deepens and time just stops. We're breathing together, sighing together, moving our bodies to feel as much skin as possible. You can feel how hard I am but you don't care, your hand sliding to my thigh, pulling my leg over yours so I can grind against your hip. I'm in danger of losing control completely but I keep my shit together with an effort and look down at you again, checking you're still okay with this new situation. From the flush on your face and the softness in your eyes it seems you are. You're breathless from our extended making out session, but you want more. It's the best feeling in the world.

_Merry Christmas to us._

"I don't want to stop, but I'm rather hungry," you say, after we come up for air again. As you say it, I realise I am too. Luckily, you've thought ahead and brought in a stupendous amount of food, fortunately most of which doesn't need much cooking. We begin with a feast of bagels, lox and cream cheese, as well as grapes and red wine to wash it all down with.

I had so many plans for today if we needed to amuse ourselves. Skating in the park, drinks with friends, the turkey dinner in Halls for this evening, but I know now we're going to spend it here in this small, smelly room, pressed together on the long couch, smoking cigarettes and watching black and white videos and pushing food into our mouths. You've bought _It's A Wonderful Life_ and _Rebecca_ with Joan Fontaine for when it gets dark out, and right now we have Carole King's _Tapestry_ playing on my old record player. It isn't Christmas music but you like it. We don't bother to get dressed. You're still in the jeans you wore the night before, and now you've stretched out on the couch again, drinking from the wine bottle.

We drank a lot. We ate a lot. And we kissed. A lot. I never wanted the day to end. Later, after we had watched _Rebecca_ , we argued fiercely over whether or not Mrs. Danvers was lesbian, before we concluded that Daphne du Maurier definitely was. And we ate again, even though we really didn't need it. I think we were putting off the inevitable. Not because we didn't want it, but because of what would happen afterwards. The Conversation about What Happens Next. Why can't life be simple?

"God, I'm a slug," you say. Your voice is languorous with excess. "A fat white slug." You ease the button on your jeans with a sigh and tug down your zip. As you do it, I'm frozen in a Priapric haze. I'm so fucking turned on by that, and the way your fingers play over your slightly distended belly and prod it. "You see? I feel like a python who has eaten a whole pig. I couldn't move if I tried." You take my hand and place it over the little rise of stomach, just below your navel. There's a faint treasure trail of silky hair running from your navel to your pubic hair, and I long to trace it with my tongue. 

"Kiss me again," you say. "Kiss the big fat snake."

I snort at the _double entrendre_. "Be careful what you wish for, Henrik."

You reach up with one lazy finger and stroke my face. "Kiss it," you repeat, and this time, there is no mistaking your meaning. I'm rock solid within seconds as I kneel on the floor next to you and prepare to gorge myself on your ~~tender meat.~~ (That's terrible, I mean delicious flesh...)

First, I want to tease you a little, kissing you deeply, letting my fingers play over your nipples until they are hard as pebbles before tasting them, flicking them, making them super-sensitive. You are aroused, your erection trapped painfully by your jeans and boxers. As you go to remove them I stop you. I want you to feel that desperation for a few moments. Welcome to my world, Henrik. I've nursed more trapped stiffies than you've had hangovers. Your groan of frustration is caught in my mouth as I finally free you. Together we push your jeans and boxers down and you kick them away. Then you're mine, and I have free reign to play with you. 

And I do play. With your hand in my hair, tightening every time the sensations threaten to overwhelm you, I treat you to another of my talents. I have to hold you down to stop your hips moving so much as I lick, suck and nibble you to the brink more times than I can count. I know what it feels like, to have warm lips enclose the head of your cock, to feel that sheath of wet heat tightly wrap around your shaft, to feel the flutter of tongue against your most sensitive areas, and sense the muscles contracting around the base of your cock. I can deep-throat with the best of them. John "No Gag Reflex" Gaskell, I've been called in the past, and now I'm giving you the works, Henrik. 

"I can't .... hold on," you stutter, but I don't care, because you haven't been with anyone else for a long time. I know that, so when you arch your back and shout your orgasm I gladly swallow your seed. It's rich and copious, spilling over my lips when I can't swallow any more, and all the while you're moaning and churning your hips and holding me down so I take every millimetre of you. Afterwards, I slump on the floor. A couple of tugs and I'm there, racked with pleasure, the mental picture of you forcing your dick down my throat enough to trigger a gloriously satisfying climax. We lie, breathing heavily, sated for now.

"Jesus," you moan, gasping for breath. You're incapable of saying or doing any more than that. When you roll over to look down at me, you fall off the couch on top of me, knocking the air out of my body. We lie like that for a while, then laugh a little.

"Tell me it doesn't get any better than that," you say eventually. 

I turn to grin at you. _Bless you, Henrik. You have no idea what's in store for you._

'Fuck yeah it does."

And it did. I took you into my bed, vowing to go slow because you seemed nervous. l spent a long time turning you on, making you so hard you were begging me to ... what? You didn't know. 

"I want to feel it," you said. "I want to know how you feel."

"Well, I've never bottomed so..."

"Is this what I'm doing now?"

"Yes. I'm topping you, Henrik, or I would be if you stopped talking."

You were acquiescent, accepting, just as I thought you would be. There were no attempts to ruin the mood with questions about anatomy or what would generally fit where. You took my cock like a natural, your eyes luminous as I lubricated you and the condom I was wearing. When I next looked, you were on your knees, crouched before me, tense and waiting. 

Too tense. I rubbed your back, soothing you, reaching round to stroke your cock, fondle your balls. When I actually entered you, your body relaxed. You leaned against the wall, angling to find the most comfortable spot, and let the sensation overtake you. When I began to move, gently, carefully, you leaned back against me, resting your head on my shoulder. As you felt more confident, you felt that urge to push back, to take more of me. I sensed it immediately and gripped your hips, jamming you against me. You were whispering "oh god, oh god," as I fucked you at a leisurely pace, speeding up when you moaned at me to go faster, harder. Then I gave it to you good, slapping your arse, reaming you until your moans became base and animalistic. When your seed splattered my pillow, my release came at the same time, vibrating through you and prolonging the exquisite sensation for both of us. 

After a few sweet moments, I pulled out and let you collapse onto the bed. I spoon around you and tug the duvet over us. For a while we doze. 

When we wake some time later, your hair is spiked with sweat and your face, neck and chest are still flushed. Even when deflated, your cock is thick and meaty, twitching at my kiss to your belly. Lively little fucker, isn't he, Henrik? Glad I have the energy to keep you satisfied.

Christmas was soon over, but you gave me a gift that has kept on giving. Down in the lab at night we would work until the small hours, then go back to our room and fuck like bunnies. With your hunger and my prowess, we are the ultimate power couple. 

If only. If only you could see it. Henrik, you don't know what you're missing....


	9. The Day After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henrik, Roxanna and David arrive back at college after the holidays, and are shocked at the state John is in. There's a huge row, and comfort comes from an unlikely source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a filler entry. There's only so much misery I can stand writing. But it's important, because it sets up John and Henrik's future relationship, and what happens when they meet again over ten years later.

I'm not going to dwell on what happened on New Year's Eve, or even the week before it. Truth is, I can't remember that much. As I write this, I remember the state I woke up in, surrounded by empty bottles and the stench of stale pizza My skin, my hair, the couch I'm lying on all feel sticky. I just can't....

I hate fucking Christmas. So glad it's over.

****** 

Later: Snatches are coming back. How could I have been that stupid? I couldn't remember how many men there had been. We drunk a lot of vodka. I know that much. And my throat is sore. No, everything is sore. 

Okay, I'm going to say it, because Henrik, you're so mad at me. I'm beginning to think you care more as a friend. That wild look in your eyes as you grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "How many?" And then "just tell me why."

So I told you. I can't remember. I think bukkake was involved. Trying to explain to you what that was, when I was fighting the hangover from hell, oh my God.

"It's like this. We all stand over one guy and jerk off. We try to time it so we cum at the same time. Everyone has a go as the receiver. It took some time." As I said it, I tried to run my fingers through my hair. Failed. The damned stuff had set like egg white, giving me a stupid quiff. 

So that was the smell in the room. Stale semen and sweat. For a moment, I thought you were going to hit me.

I wish you had.

So I'm writing this because I want to remind myself how fucking reckless that was. And how I understand why you were so angry. 

"What is wrong with you?" You yell at me, shaking my shoulders. "Why are you intent on destroying yourself?"

I don't know. I want to scream that I love you, and I know I can't have you and it's eating me up inside, but I can't.

"Go and shower." Your voice was like granite. "I"ll start clearing up."

I started to say you didn't have to do that, but you ignored me. I could feel your rage from my position, huddled in the big armchair. I didn't want to move. Self-loathing kept me there. I stared into space as you walked around the room, almost comical in yellow rubber gloves and carrying a trash sack. Silently, you picked up bottles and cans, once holding up a used condom and glaring at me accusingly before dropping it in the sack.

I didn't notice when you became still, looking at something. When I saw this diary in your hands, I lunged for it but I was too drunk, too stoned. You stepped away and continued reading, while I sobbed and grovelled and pleaded for you to give it back.

Roxanna came back a few moments later, her eyes red with tears. I really wish she hadn't. It just made everything worse. You handed the diary to her and she glanced at it, then me. Tears spilled from her eyes again.

"John..."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I was annoyed by her tear-stained cheeks. This was nothing to do with her. 

"We should never have left you. I'm so sorry," she sobbed, angering me further. 

"Why you always make everything about you?" I was blundering around, my temper vicious. "For fuck's sake, Roxanna, stop fucking crying!"

She only cried harder. You stepped forward. 

"Don't talk to her that way."

"Why not? Why does she always have to be so fucking dramatic?" I was yelling, not seeing the irony of that statement. "Why is she even here? Get the fuck out of my face, Rox. You're always in my fucking face, moralising and judging and being so fucking perfect every fucking day and you're not. You're so not all that fucking wonderful. Get the fuck out of here!" I threw the first thing I could lay my hands on, an empty bottle of Scotch, and hurled it at her. There was a scream and a sharp pain to my jaw. 

I was on the floor. 

You had punched me. 

I lay there, howling uselessly, stranded on the floor like a bug unable to flip itself upright. I cried for you but you left without saying a word. 

I can't remember how long I lay there. Could have been three hours, or three minutes. But I do remember the light floral scent, and soft hands taking mine and pulling me upright, wiping the snot and tears from my face. 

Soft breasts against my back, gentle arms cradling me as I wept again. 

Roxanna. 

"Why are you here?" I asked her. "I was so horrible to you."

We sat on the couch, me with my legs over hers. She was holding me like a mother holds a child to comfort it, close, tight, her cheeks damp with tears. 

And we talked. Or I talked. I told her everything. How I felt about you. How I knew how damaging it was to love someone and not be loved in return. I told her about my jealousy. How she had everything and I had nothing. 

I even told her about the work I had stolen from her while she was asleep, to which she stroked my hair and said, "I know." And that shocked me. She knew all that, and didn't hate me. I waited to despise her, but I couldn't. Instead I respected her. She had given me a chance. After everything I had said, and done, and thought, she had so much love and pureness of heart, just waiting for the time to suggest we work together. We could pool our collective intellectual resources and become a team. A real team. A family. 

And I cried again, because that was something completely alien to me, and I didn't deserve that gift. 

"No," she said. "You've behaved reprehensibly, but you have a chance. We believe in you. We admire your mind. You just have to be straight with us. At all times."

Straight? I laughed then. Nothing straight about me, sweetheart. 

"This is serious, John," she said. "We love you, but this is your last chance to be part of something special. To win back Henrik's respect and be the best you can be."

And she held me while I thought it through, the drugs and alcohol gradually working through my system, being replaced by warmth and light. 

Roxanna my angel. 

"You need to tell him how you feel," she said finally. 

"I'm too scared."

She stroked my hair. "I know, but you must. He needs to hear it from you."

*****

I didn't tell him. Our relationship was strained for the next few months until graduation. I scraped through my degree, and Roxanna was given the accolade she deserved. We parted company, each to concentrate on our own projects. 

Henrik went on to train to be a doctor, and eventually found his calling in general surgery.

Roxanna and David worked on neurological advancement, being the team the world deserved. 

And I settled to do a PhD in stem cells, determined to change the world. 

This is my last entry for a while. I don't have the words to express all the missed opportunities, the deep-seated passions, the urge to make my mark on the world. I will, but it will take time. 

Cheaters never prosper for long. The hard work is only just beginning. 

Henrik, will I see you again? I don't know. I can't help think about what might have been, if I had had the courage to explain to you, to lay bare my soul and let you wound me with your rejection, maybe things would be different. 

Or maybe not, and I'd be roadkill. 

I'd rather be the one driving the car, if I'm honest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end. The next chapter will be set in 2001, twelve years after John, Henrik and Rox have left university. They will all be qualified doctors, with John beginning work on stem cell research, which will lead to his time in Lisbon. He and Henrik will meet for the first time since graduation, at a medical conference in Paris. 
> 
> On seeing his former flame for the first time in over ten years, John feels compelled to confide in his diary again.


End file.
